Still, Ms. Hannover ran. She might have made it as far as the crosswalk if Claire hadn’t tackled her. Claire’s face smacked against Ms. Hannover’s naked behind and her left elbow ended up in more dog poop. Didn’t these fine citizens curb their dogs? Or wear anything?
Then she saw the spotless boots of Jackson approaching, stopping at Claire’s eye level and madame’s ass.
“FBI. Don’t move, ma’am,” Jackson said, so much more professional than laughing. Claire was going to chew his balls off for breakfast.
“Oh, Jesus,” the woman said, as Claire extracted herself and whipped out her handcuffs. Then Claire read Ms. Hannover her rights, and together they hauled her to her feet. Ms. Hannover remained silent until Claire was finished. Then she started panting and said, “Jesus, who’s going to cook my goddamn Thanksgiving turkey?”
Claire and Jackson traded incredulous looks. “You should have thought about that before you started cooking methamphetamines in your spare bedroom,” Jackson said.
“Yes, unfortunately, it’s your goose that’s cooked,” Claire added, with a straight face.
“It’s not cooked. And it’s a turkey. It’s going to spoil,” the woman said, sounding confused. And high. Higher than the rising sun.
The backup team approached with a double-extra-large FBI Windbreaker and Special Agent Santos wrapped it around Ms. Hannover with some difficulty, trying to snap up the front without getting sued for sexual harassment.
“My son was messing around with that stuff,” Ms. Hannover argued as they walked her to their car. “That’s his room.”
“Your son is serving twenty-five to life for murder,” Jackson said.
“My nephew is staying in Sweetie’s room while Sweetie’s in prison,” Ms. Hannover prevaricated. Her teeth were very pointy, as in maybe filed down on a whim or for some trick’s big bucks, or as a result of some pimp’s payback back in the day before Ms. Hannover lost the will to limit her caloric intake to only three double cheeseburgers at a single sitting. Claire realized that lack of sleep was making her snarky. As a rule, she had nothing against people who liked their food.
“Sweetie told his cell mate that you committed the murder,” Jackson added. She’d been read her rights. She hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Things were looking good.
“I’m going to be in jail on Thanksgiving.” She chuckled and grinned at Claire with those freaky teeth. “I won’t have to cook but you will, honey.” She broke wind against the Windbreaker.
“She’s riding with you guys,” Jackson told Santos. He wrinkled his fine freckled nose at Claire’s assorted dog poop stains. “Maybe she should, too.”
Santos narrowed his eyes at Jackson, promising payback, and escorted Ms. Hannover to the backup car. When Jackson and Claire got back to their own government-owned vehicle, Claire folded a towel and sat sideways with her feet on the ground as she scraped off her shoe. Behind the wheel, Jackson pulled all kinds of little-boy “ew” faces that she ignored entirely. She started cleaning her elbow with a fresh wet wipe.
“You were laughing,” she said to him.
“She caught me unawares,” he said. “Door opens, I see her in the buff, she bolts.”
“And you’ve been an agent for what, six seconds?” In truth, he had more time in the Bureau than she did. They’d partnered up in fugitives three years ago, and before that, he’d done years and years in white-collar crime—while she’d had just a handful of assignments as a new agent.
He shrugged unapologetically. “Whatevah,” he said, in his Southie accent.
“I wonder if she thought no one in the neighborhood would see her running naked down the street? Was she hoping to blend in?” Claire said.
That set them both to laughing.
“Did you see her teeth?” Claire asked. “Maybe she used to be a goth.”
“When—1953?” Jackson shot back.
Claire shook her head. “A woman that size, leaping off a second-story balcony. I’d think she’d break an ankle. And she was so fast.”
“PCP. It’s a beautiful thing,” Jackson replied. “So, you all packed?” he asked, changing the subject only slightly.
Claire’s merriment faded. “This is bogus. Advanced evidence collection techniques on Thanksgiving? For two weeks? It’s got to be code for something else.”
Jackson rolled his eyes heavenward. “The aliens have landed. Finally.”
“What about people with kids?” she pressed. “Or elderly parents? What was the Bureau thinking, scheduling this now?”
“Maybe they’re only taking people who won’t be missed.”
“Oh, thanks,” she snapped.
Jackson was quiet a moment. Then he slid a glance at her. “Maybe a couple of weeks apart will help. Have you given any more thought to the therapy idea?”
She pulled another wet wipe from the pack—they bought them by the case at Costco—and scrubbed at her ick-encrusted elbow. Then she wadded the towelette and slipped it into their little black trash holder.
“Peter and I don’t need couples counseling. And we don’t need ‘help.’ Things are fine.”
“It really helped Santos and his third wife. Or was it his fourth?” Jackson deadpanned.
“We’re fine,” Claire said through gritted teeth.
“Claire, I’m your partner,” Jackson said gently, and his voice slid perilously close to the edge where they should not go. She was married to Peter, and even if she hadn’t been, fraternization was not cool. There was no way she wanted to jeopardize her career because Jackson was handsome and funny and observant. And tall with lanky legs and blond hair shot with silver. And had periwinkle blue eyes, periwinkle being her favorite color. They were both superstars on the fugitive task force—which was why they were the “lucky” ones being dumped with Advanced Forensics Techniques over Thanksgiving—and for kids like them who got all A’s in The Job, the straight and narrow was the only way to fly.
“I’m all packed,” Claire said. “I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll miss you,” Peter said, kissing Claire good-bye the next evening. Her assignment was all very cloak-and-dagger: Night before Thanksgiving, car at eight, not to take her to the Boston field office but to an undisclosed location.
“I’ll miss you, too,” Claire said, but she was still focused on his forced tone of voice. His fakey-fake smile. She was an FBI agent. She knew lying when she saw it, heard it. He was actually happy that she was leaving. Not simply relieved, the way people are when things are not great at home and a business trip gives you both a break. He had something planned. He had dark brown curly hair and big coffee-colored eyes, and he worked out. Maybe some hottie grad student at MIT, where he taught physics, was coming over to cook a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey for poor Dr. Anderson, whose careerist wife was abandoning him at such a special time of year.
Peter didn’t even like turkey.
Their kiss left much to be desired, and then the car slid up to the curb like a shark. Jackson was in the back, in a really great black suit, white collar, and tie. Blond hair, tanned, he took the FBI look to a whole new GQ level. Claire had on a killer black jacket, white silk blouse, black wool pencil skirt, black heels—not too high for the job, very flattering.
“You okay?” Jackson said by way of greeting. She didn’t bother answering. One lie today was enough.
“This is all very drama-drama,” she said. “We could drive ourselves. We both have take-homes.” As in, Bureau cars they could drive home when they went off-duty.
“Which makes it even more mysterious and, therefore, cool,” he replied. Then he nodded knowingly as they glided away. “Aliens.”
Not aliens.
“Holy shit, are they kidding?” Jackson murmured, as the next PowerPoint slide popped up on the screen. In the image, the vic, who in life had been very beautiful, was lying on her side in a room with ugly beige wallpaper. She was wearing a pink turtleneck sweater and blue jeans, and clutching a copy of Thoreau’s Walden. Fingertips in blue latex had moved the sweater neck away from the vic’s skin, revealing two deep punctures. Next slide: Luminol had been applied to the punctures, and the long-exposure shot revealed the telltale glow of blood, also showing a few droplets on the floor beside her. Only instead of glowing blue, as it should have, the blood was a brilliant purple. “We surmise that when the vampire attacks, it deposits something into the victim’s bloodstream that causes this reaction to the Luminol,” Dr. Alan DeWitt, their forensics instructor, explained in a flat monotone that boggled Claire’s mind. How could anyone sound that detached when they were discussing an attack by an actual bloodsucking vampire?